


amazing grace

by saltyfeathers



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Levi!Cas, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-05
Updated: 2013-10-05
Packaged: 2017-12-28 11:24:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/991463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltyfeathers/pseuds/saltyfeathers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a lovely song. There are many lovely things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	amazing grace

They’re tearing into his vocal chords like a starving dog shreds a steak, and that’s why their rendition of Amazing Grace leaves much to be desired.

According to the town clock it’s 3:02am, overcast and dewy. His shadow is a blotch on the pavement below him, messy and indistinct, and he’s shuffling, and it sounds like someone’s dragging a body in a burlap sack over asphalt.

Which, really, they tell him, is accurate. As far as they’re concerned, they’re millions of bodies inside another body inside a celestial consciousness. Can’t get cozier than that, they simper. Got to bundle up for the cold weather, you see.

Is it cold, he thinks. He remembers drowning, vaguely. Remembers an audience, hardly. Remembers uneeded blood running black and tar seeping out of every orifice.

But his (their) (Jimmy’s) breath steams the air in front of his (their) (Jimmy’s) mouth. Who is he to argue against nature, he who holds the very essence, the beginning of nature inside of him?

You thought you were old, they laugh at him, you thought you were ancient and forever. You forget, we are the relics of a bygone age. Now listen to your elders, dearest Castiel. Or we’ll throw you across our lap and spank you.

He hobbles, feels his bones grind together like a pestle and mortar, and they idly wonder what the resulting powder tastes like. They’re curious what dish they can flavor with it. What do you taste like, Castiel? They muse, murmur, and talk amongst themselves, debating.

There is no breeze tonight, there is barely sound. It’s a small town, somewhere in the Midwest, they’re not sure. When they originally roamed the earth there were no such things as towns, or asphalt, or trench coats. They infiltrate Castiel’s mind, find the name, discard it when they realize they don’t care and it doesn’t matter.  

The colors are so pretty, they marvel in the dark. Autumn is a lovely season, Castiel, they decide. So very lovely. No green, they tack on significantly, and their mouth twists into a smirk, and there are too many teeth behind his lips. His cheeks bulge because there are so many teeth.

The better to eat you with, little red riding hood, they coo, and Castiel has no idea where they learned a fairy tale, however distorted it may be.

He continues to walk, to shamble, and the bottoms of his suit pants become wet, and he thinks one of his eyes has started to goop up again. He can’t exactly feel it anymore (physical sensation a little out of range right now) but he thinks the black has spilled over onto his cheek, and he thinks said eye is entirely black, flooded in it. The tar is matted in his hair, some wet, some dry, his scalp only held together by glue and the stickiness of their slick.

There’s a steady dripping, and he’s bleeding ink onto the street, from his fingertips, from his coattails, from the corner of his mouth like spittle. He’s literally melting, but with the amount of them inside him, at the rate he’s going, it’ll take decades, centuries for it to peter out.

So little time, they hiss, disappointed, in this pretty-like-autumn vessel. We’ll make it work, angel.

And then there’s a gasp from behind him, followed the by tinny sound of pop music blaring from headphones.

He swivels, watches drops of his insides scatter on the pavement.

“Oh my god,” the jogger- mid forties, lean, affable, taking the lord’s name in vain- says. “Oh my god, are you alright?”

Who jogs at 3am? Someone who lives in a town that’s not afraid enough.

Run, he thinks dully, but that thought is quashed like a bug between thumb and index finger.

They pry open his mouth, and it’s rusty hinges that haven’t been oiled for years, overgrown and reclaimed by the forest.

“I’m amazing, Grace,” they say, singsong, and there’s more than one voice coming out of his mouth, and it’s distorted by all the teeth, hoarse. He spits up black.

“You need to go to a hospital,” the jogger says warily, though he doesn’t come any closer. If anything, he steps back, sweat gleaming on his forehead.

They want to lick it off. They lick their lips in anticipation.

“How sweet the sound,” they say, and the jogger takes another step back.

“W-what?” he asks, and they can tell. He wants to run. He regrets ever stopping his strange, late night ritual.

“That saved a wretch like me,” they smile bashfully, because they have heard of the Samaritan, their father _created_ the Samaritan, and now he’s _giving_ them a Samaritan. How kind.  

“I once was lost,” they claim, as they surge forward, fist a hand in his shirt, pull him in close, “But now I’m found,” they continue, as they press a kiss to his forehead, tongue darting out to taste the salt-sweat of physical exertion.

The jogger makes a noise, _please_ , and they smile wider than their vessel’s face should be able to, with more teeth than their vessel’s mouth should contain.

“'Twas blind, but now I see,” they sing, as their eyes roll backwards in their skull. Tar replaces white, runs in rivulets down their cheeks. It’s a beautiful song, they inform Castiel. Look, we’re tearing up. Or, they smirk, tearing up.

Their second hand is on the jogger’s face, and it’s poking and prodding, and he’s whimpering and writhing appropriately.

This next part is for you, Cas, they laugh, hand fisting in the jogger’s hair and yanking him forward.

“'Twas grace that taught my heart to fear,” they hush into his neck, “And grace my fears relieved.” Before he can make too much noise, they pry open the jogger’s mouth. Their first course of action is taking his tongue between their teeth, and biting. Hard. The tongue is cleaved out, the jogger jerks in their grip, and they chew.

Tongue is cheap, they complain, swallowing thickly as blood spurts onto their face, getting absorbed by the runaway black.

They pull the jogger back, gripping his face with both inky hands, and slice through his neck. They tear cartilage, flesh, muscle, tendons. They hit the carotid arteries and keep digesting, because talk may be cheap, but tongue is cheaper. Tongue is the server.

Once they hit the vocal chords, the jogger is halfway to dead, more a wooden puppet with an amateur at the strings than anything else. He won’t be making any noises louder than a gurgle.

“How precious did that grace appear,” they say, as they lick at the folds of his vocal chords, “The hour I first believed.”

How does it taste, Castiel? They wonder, smiling red mouths at him. This is a lovely song, they continue. We should sing it more often.

This next part is for us, they tell him, conspiratorially.

“When we've been there ten thousand years,” they snort, because that’s an understatement, “Bright shining as the sun,” Close enough, they shrug, and start pulling the jogger’s eyelashes out, one by one.

“We've no less days to sing God's praise,” They suck out an eyeball, pulling it off any and all attachments, and it sounds like a dog toy just lost a ferocious game of tug of war, “Then when we first begun.”

“Praise god!” They shriek suddenly, losing themselves in the moment, “Praise Him!” They reach inside the hole they’ve created in the jogger’s neck, far back enough to grip his spine, and they thrust him towards the sky, mouth wide and groaning and black and red. The jogger does nothing, wobbles there like a particularly limbless doll.

They stand completely still for a moment, captivated. Then, slowly, they lower him. They kiss him, and when they break the kiss, they take his bottom lip with them.

“Amazing grace, how sweet the sound” they trill, tearing a chunk out of his chest, “That saved a wretch like me.”

“I once was lost, but now I'm found.”

They yank a tooth out, a canine. Crunch it between their own, much stronger teeth. They open his stomach, crack two ribs out, crush them into powder. Too dry, they decide, and discard them. Cas, they chastise, bad choice of simile back there. Better get back in our good books.

They root around in his chest, grab the jogger’s heart, blood cascading over their palm, trickling like a leaky faucet onto the street.

“Was blind, but now I see,” Castiel finishes, despairs, and bites. 


End file.
